Dudley's Secret Passions
by TheInsomniacsGuild
Summary: Is there a mind behind his dense exterior? Can insight come from such an unintelligent person? Perhaps there are details we do not know about Dudley Dursley...
1. Chapter 1

Dudley's Secret Passions

By: Ceyl the Intelligent and RenTheGenius

_A collection of fanfiction pieces centered around Dudley Dursley, highlighting some of his more eccentric tendencies that most of us are not aware of..._

A/N: As in our other stories, pieces of thought process may be found following the end of this installment.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is a single entity and does not have a split-personality disorder, as far as we know. Then, why would she be referring to herself in the plural? Are these disclaimers necessary? Employ a bit of common sense and face the facts: we are not a world-renowned author.

**

It was constantly on his mind– a burden to his everyday living, a tragic secret that affected him to the core of his existence. Dudley Dursley had an undisclosed and unchangeable love for argyle. Whether it was the overlapping triangles of various colours or the enticing, dotted-line framed pattern that kept him awake in the early hours of the morning, he did not know; but, he was convinced that his obsession was putting undue stress on his life. Somewhere, in his meager, hostile little brain, however, Dudley realized that argyle designs were an obsession that he would have to contain in the crevices of his underdeveloped mind. They could only be accessed and reflected upon extensively in the privacy of his oversized, unfashionably-decorated bedroom during the early hours of the morning. There, he felt safe; no one would break in and discover even a hint of argyle. Dudley shuddered at the thought: What would happen if his father knew? His mother! Would she die of shock? Would Harry use the incriminating evidence against his reputation and destroy his life's dreams? Such were the tortures of daily living. At one time, Dudley felt his mania would never be exposed; but, he soon realized minor intrusions on his personal loves were inevitable. Though, some were more painful to experience than others.

His naive shell had in fact been broken several times in this one day alone. Though, as of yet no one had discovered his secret, and, hopefully, they never would. Dudley thought he was safe; his mother would not find his collection of argyle because she never delved that far into his smelly sock drawer. His father had no cause to rifle through his perfect son's sock drawer, and Harry hated coming in contact with Dudley. Going into Dudley's room would definitely guarantee some form of interaction. Dudley assumed he was safe. However, only this morning, while Dudley sat admiring the argyle, his small mind was unable to comprehend that the noise of faint knocking on his door meant that someone was going to actually be entering his room. Only as the door was opening did he realize the danger, and, with a speed that Harry would not think him capable of, Dudley snatched the socks off of the desk and threw them onto the unused bookshelf just before his mother entered the room.

Dudley's bad luck did not stop there. Later, after Dudley had resumed his appreciation of all things argyle, none other than Mr. Dursley decided to pay Dudley a visit to congratulate him on his recent boxing victory, reward him with money, and remind him of how much better he was than Harry. Dudley was only just able to avoid detection by stuffing the offending socks down his shirt and crossing his arms.

This, however, left the last and worst encounter, when his secret is finally discovered by the worst possible person, the Freak more commonly known as his cousin, Harry Potter.

It was later that evening. There was a nasty thunderstorm which prevented both Dudley and Harry from escaping the confines of the house. Dudley decided to use the cover of playing on his computer to escape from the other occupants of the house so he could admire more argyle. Harry, much to his displeasure, was sent by his Mrs. Dursley to fetch Dudley from his bedroom for dinner. As Dudley sat on the floor holding his precious argyle socks, Harry knocked on the door before quickly throwing it open. Needless to say, Harry was astonished. Here was his intellectually inferior and extremely round cousin flopped on the floor staring at argyle socks like they were some sort of precious gem. Dudley, though slow in the head, was able to tell that he was in for some extreme taunting if the grin slowly working its way across his cousin's face was anything to judge by. Being Dudley, he said the first thing that came into his head, "This isn't what it looks like."

"Why Dudley, to me it looks as if you are admiring argyle patterned socks. I wasn't aware that you were a fan of argyle. You know, I'm sure that Piers would like to know. It might give him an idea of what to get you for Christmas," Harry said.

"Don't tell or….. or…….or……I'll hit you!" Dudley replied slowly, being unable to get his brain to go at a faster speed.

Harry stared at Dudley with one eyebrow raised. Dudley, with an angry and frustrated expression stared at Harry. They were interrupted, however, by an angry Mrs. Dursley, who was yelling about Harry taking too long getting Dudley for dinner. She walked in looking incredibly like an overgrown goose and shrieked upon seeing the argyle patterned socks in her extremely argyle free house.

"AHHHHHHH! IT'S ARGYLE. IN MY HOUSE! Dudley, I …I…..I……How could I raise such a—it's argyle!" Petunia sputtered before collapsing in a dead faint, where both Dudley and Harry stared at her motionless form before Dudley shoved the socks back into the drawer and proceeded downstairs to eat dinner.

Luckily for Dudley and Harry, Mr. Dursley was completely oblivious to the entire situation, as he was busy shoveling as much food as possible into his oral cavity. Needless to say, neither Dudley nor Harry mentioned the argyle again, so as not to provoke another fainting spell from Aunt Petunia.

**A/N: **_The end of the first installment of DUDLEY'S SECRET PASSIONS it may be continued once we have more inspiration. Unfortunately I cannot come up with anything remotely entertaining unless we are actually at the same location. Anyways, the first paragraph of this was written by RenTheGenius while the rest was written by CEYL THE INTELLIGENT .......... so until we have inspiration…. ~`CEYL THE INTELLIGENT`~ _

_There is minimal documented thought today: _

_Okay! Are you ready for __The Bothersome Nose: The Tales of a Greasy Git?__ I think you will… I couldn't decide which characters to put in, but in case you're writing all this, I won't say. I added both. I have something to add! How do you spell "Sirius"? Ok, never mind, I found it. :I now relinquish my creative liberties for the next paragraph to my co-author, thank you for reading… - RenTheGenius._


	2. Chapter 2

Dudley's Hot Date

Disclaimer: The incredibly handsome heartthrob, with a quite toned and athletic build, if I might add, who is known to the community of Little Winging as Dudley Dursley is no property of mine. And, I am not entirely sure if I would want him.

Dudley's orange polka-dotted bowtie strained under the force of Petunia's fussing before it finally sat correctly along the neck of his pressed dress shirt, barely visible under his multiple chins. Though Dudley hadn't taken much interest to the idea of dating the daughter of his father's affluent and highly snobbish business connection, both Vernon and Petunia had insisted that it was a lovely idea and the arrangement would most certainly bring about a large order of drills for Vernon's company. They had even banished Harry to Mrs. Figg's living room to live among her cats for the day in order for Vernon and Petunia to most effectively concentrate at poking and prodding Dudley and impressing upon him the importance of pretending he was rich until he was sufficiently "ready" for his date with Cynthia to an outrageously expensive French restaurant.

After squeezing his immense body mass into a borrowed Ferrari, Dudley proceeded to drive to Cynthia's mansion of a house in order to pick her up for their date. Stepping up to the door, Dudley nervously straightened his bow tie and tried to flatten his suit, which is an impossible task due to his stomach being anything _but_ flat. Cynthia skipped out the door dressed in what appeared to be the remnants of an elegant floor length gown, but someone had decided that there was no use for the bottom half of the material and had removed everything below the knee, causing the dress to float as Cynthia walked. Such a design made her look like a dying insect in a pond, desperately bobbing up for its last few breaths of air. Along with the outfit, she wore an expression of superiority and flirtatiousness that was almost invisible under a mask-like coating of makeup. Dudley noted that her bobbed hair cut seemed fitting, as it did bob every time she giggled at something he hadn't said.

When they arrived at the restaurant, the couple was ushered to a small table that was topped with a white tablecloth and a set of candles. Dudley excitedly grabbed a menu, confident in his mind that such a renowned restaurant would certainly have an immense selection of his favorite grease-dipped cuisine. Frantically, Dudley scanned the menu, and, though his brain did not function in the most effective of ways, it did not take long for him to ascertain that the entire document was written in French. Dudley Dursley did not speak a word of French.

The waiter soon returned, requested his order, and tempted him with a glass of champagne, which Dudley quickly remembered was an alcoholic beverage, meaning it probably tasted something like beer and would result in a similar effect. He was about to eagerly accept the proposition when his mother's screechy voice intruded his brain and began scolding him about "behaving in the most gentlemanly manner like Daddy and I taught you." Unfortunately, he concluded that accepting drinks underage and becoming drunk on his date would most likely _not_ qualify as "behaving", but the appeal was so overwhelming to Dudley that he stared dumbly at the waiter for several seconds contemplating the paradox. He was eventually interrupted by Cynthia haughtily clearing her throat and jabbing his massive hand so he would ensue and announce what he would like to eat.

"Er—I want the escargots," he said, picking the shortest word on the menu and mutilating its pronunciation, even though he highly doubted it had the preferred amount of fat for him to actually enjoy it. In fact, his rendition of the word sounded something akin to a moose grunting in surprise as it tripped over a tree stump. Luckily, Cynthia was so enamored by Dudley's nonexistent charm that she seemed to overlook the language barrier.

Suddenly, a ringing sound penetrated the awkward atmosphere. Reaching into his enormous pocket, Dudley extracted the cell phone. He had brought the device, hoping he would receive a call and further astonish Cynthia because of his over-exaggerated wealth and privilege. There would be no need to inform her that he had won it in a library poetry contest – no one expected he could have such deep and flowing feelings about argyle footwear. Sadly, he soon realized how disastrous and traumatizing the conversation would be.

"Hey, Dudley! They moved the season finale of "Amor Caliente" from 10:00 to 7:00!"

Dudley hung up, a look of absolute horror spreading across his flabby face as he processed the information he had just received from Phil, his friend and chairman of the Soap Opera Fans' Society. This was, by far, the most horrible news he had been given in his life! How would he find out whom Julio's father was? Would Esperanza leave her boyfriend Fabio and run off to Puerto Rico with Fernando, the salsa-dancing drug lord? Never had such an urgent crisis entered his life since he had to rescue his pair of Christmas-colored argyle socks from the laundry basket. Dudley knew he had to leave; it was already 6:40. His mind searched for an excuse, gathering the most random words he could compile at such a short notice.

"I have to go! My flamingo is in labor!"

And with that, he rushed out the door.

The poor waiter stood there looking flabbergasted and then turned to Cynthia with a questioning look. "Miss, will you be ordering or will you leave now that your date has run off? And what was he talking about?"

Cynthia ignored his question and sighed. "Oh, he is so sexy. He has such a way with animals."

The waiter said, "What was the he talking about anyways?"

Cynthia replied, "Oh, his flamingo is in labor."

The waiter looked confused and asked, "Don't flamingos lay eggs?"

"Oh, no. Flamingos are birds; it's chickens that lay eggs," explained Cynthia, impervious to the several heads that had turned to stare inquisitively at the developing scene. "I admire sensitivity in a man."

***********

Meanwhile, Vernon Dursley cruised down the highway, rather impressed with himself for only exceeding the speed limit by twenty kilometers this time for the benefit of his wife. He was, in fact, quite pleased with his genius: perfect children generate profit in so many fine ways. Surely, all would go well and his career would be advanced to a more desirable level, despite its minor setback due to the mishap with the Potter boy. Vernon doubted the pudding stains on Mrs. Mason's dress would have been removable in even the most expensive laundry machine.

An expensive-looking sports car recaptured Vernon's attention as it swerved around other vehicles at a velocity that would have made him blush, if blushing wasn't such a sissy institution, of course. Furthermore, Vernon was moderately disturbed to witness the nearly out-of-control car come to a screeching halt and pause for a matter of seconds, until the driver resumed his previous degree of hazardous maneuverability. Craning his indecently short neck, Vernon was able to detect a trail of nine fuzzy, hideously cute ducklings scramble into the median of the freeway.

The hotshot who was driving like a lunatic had just nearly jeopardized the lives of those following behind him to save a bunch of dumb birds? _Well, that harebrained idiot is not only drunk, but also overly-sentimental and probably a fruitcake_, Vernon reasoned. At least his son was not some sort of foolish, girly man. Dudley was respectable and tough; basically, a model citizen. He and Petunia had done such a lovely job raising him.

"Vernon!" shrieked Petunia, her voice rising through at least three octaves. "Was that _our _Diddykins?!"

***********

The clock in the Ferrari declared it to be two minutes to seven o'clock when Dudley leapt out of it, or, rather attempted to leap without much success, and stumbled up the porch steps. He was going to make it, despite those innocent feathered creatures that had nearly become casualties of his pursuit; however, they might have been acceptable losses. This was a matter between viewing the premiere of the season finale and the horrible alternative: having to watch a rerun a week later.

Breathing heavily, Dudley skittered to a stop in his bedroom. He flicked on the remote just in time to hear the first notes of the Spanish theme song, and such a sweet sound it was. Extremely pleased with himself, he watched the episode with rapt attention. In fact, he was so utterly enthralled with the developing plotline that he failed to notice his bedroom door creak open and his nosy cousin slip inside. Harry remained hidden by the shadow of the door with his mouth agape, but he finally cleared his throat and was met with his cousin's horrorstruck expression.

"You speak Spanish?" asked Harry, and then, snickering, he left the room.

**A/N:**

_Ren: So, what do you have to say for yourself, Ceyl._

_Ceyl: I still find it sad that we are so impressed that one or two people author alerted/favorited our story – in the entire world._

_Ren: :laughs:_

_Ceyl: And, I'm trying to think of what's right for the Dumbledore thing. Haven't come up with anything yet. _[Side note: Legends of a Lemon Drop Lover will be out published soon, now that exams are finally over].

_Ceyl: (after a long, plot-revealing discussion about the aforementioned story) Hmm, do I express myself with words? Does "You idiot!" qualify? I think I am fairly decent with words when I'm angry._

_Ren: (I would have to agree, I am very fluent in sarcasm when provoked.)_

_Ceyl: "I am cheerful!":cackles: I would have to say that I am the antithesis of "cheerful" "I am talkative." Ha!_

_Ren: You're about as talkative as a rock, Ceyl._

_Ceyl: Yeah. In fact, the only person I ever talk to is you. That proves I am not a mute, though some people would think so. So what do you think about this test?_

_Ren: Surprisingly accurate, or more so than I thought it would be. What would you say is the best thing about Harry Potter?_

_Ceyl: The character analysis. Is that nerdy?_

_Ren: Yes, it is. But it's so much fun!_

_For your clarification, we were taking a personality test to determine which House we would be in. Results: Ren – Gryffindor; Ceyl – Gryffindor (despite the fact that she thought she would be in Slytherin)._


End file.
